Yellowstone

Some pictures from our winter trip to Yellowstone. Long ride, scarce snow, but a pretty good time.


Clouds rolling in over the back side of Bunsen.

From Yellowstone

The front side...

From Yellowstone

Mammoth Terraces

From Yellowstone

Thermophiles in action

From Yellowstone

Lamar Valley Trees

From Yellowstone

Stormy Weather

From Yellowstone

Wildlife gawkers

From Yellowstone

Geyser Rhime ice

From Yellowstone

Elfin Lakes, British Columbia

We drove up a little past Squamish to the Diamond Head sector of Garibaldi Provincial Park. Snow conditions were initially crummy.


But there was this bright glowing orb in the sky and the Coast Range was out in all her glory.




We managed to finish the 11 km approach right as darkness swallowed us. The hut was even more deluxe than I had imagined, with gas light and heat, and we only had to share it with three other guys and two mice. The following day, I tagged along with some good ol' boys from Squamish and skied off of Columnar Peak. Over night six or seven inches of light and tasty snow had fallen. In the open, if you kept up your speed it was quite nice, but in the trees or in tighter terrain, the bumpy and runneled crust made skiing unpleasant. And needless to say, the visibility had taken a turn for the worse.



I acted (in my opinion) responsibly and prioritized a daylight return to the car over taking another lap off Columnar. It was still a bit of a slow, wet affair out of the hut. I can't wait to go back.

Better than the Sierra? Lyman Lakes Loop

After most backpacking trips Andrew and I have taken, I hear these words: "It was good, but not as good as the Sierra. You should go hike in the high Sierra, the best mountains in the world." I understand having favorite mountains, but by now the mountains of northern California have been built up so high that I fear grand-scale disappointment when I take my first trip. Here in Washington, we finally on a trip that rivaled the Sierras enough to stop these declarations. Of course the "I want to ski this" comments abounded, but the "You should go to California" comments were shushed.

We headed out for a long weekend to do some hiking in the Glacier Peak Wilderness area. Lyman Lakes loop was our destination. Most of the first day was spent in a slow, steady ascent in the trees. Although this was not delivering on the views, we did come across something that peaked our interest: pack goats.

I was sitting with our gear, waiting for Andrew to drop off the car at our endpoint and hitch a ride back to the trail head when I saw them first. A friendly guy out for a backpacking trip with his gear-laden group of goats. Ben, a white and black goat with a sweet-ass beard and loud bell, came over and sniffed me for awhile, licked my forehead, blew goat snot in my face, then attempted to eat my map. The owner apologized and tried to round up the other three goats to hit the trail. The rounding up part did not look like fun, as the goats were totally content destroying every huckleberry bush in sight. I can't blame them, huckleberries are delicious.

A wild pack of family goats


I excitedly told Andrew about the goats when he returned, and we took off on the trail, hoping to catch up with them. It ended up that we played leap-frog with the goat pack several times that day (maybe it was intentional), and every time we had a battery of questions for the guy: "How many pounds can they carry?", "How do you train them", "What do they eat on the trail, do you have to bring extra food?", "Can they go over glaciers?", "Can they carry skis?". We sadly said goodbye as the heartwarming group set up camp before the climb to Buck Creek Pass. Andrew was quiet for awhile, then says "I think it could be done, really". And by "it" I knew he meant finding a baby mountain goat, bottle feeding it, training it to carry gear, and using it to carry skis to the top of mountains. The trouble is having the heart to steal a baby mountain goat from its mother...

We continued on in the trees. Dusk was threatening when we emerged above tree line into views of jagged, crowding peaks with meadows of dying bear grass backlit by the setting sun. As we hit Buck Creek Pass, Glacier Peak in all of its splendor, popped out from hiding.

View back over Buck Creek Valley


Dying bear grass


We climbed to the top of Flower Dome where we had great views in every direction for about 10 minutes. Suddenly, and I mean suddenly (less than 4 minutes), the clouds moved in. One moment, a clear beautiful night with peaks as far as you could see, and the next minute fog so thick you couldn't make out the moon.

From our campsite as the fog rolls in


In the fog


We set up camp on a people-free yet foggy summit, and cooked dinner. Lately we have been stepping it up a notch in the back-country cooking department. Instant mashed potatoes can shockingly get old. One of our backpacking partners last week brought a delicious pork vindaloo for dinner the first night, which I tried to recreate on this trip. The gourmet dish was mighty flavorful, but I didn't grind the spices sufficiently. We kept biting into whole sticks of cinnamon or cardamom seeds that made our mouths go numb. Nonetheless, it was delicious, and my pack was much lighter sans Indian food the next day. Full and warm, we fell to sleep in the fog, with the sounds of marmots whistling.

Glacier from the top of Flower Dome


The next morning rang clear, and views of Glacier were f-a-b-u-l-o-u-s. We hit the trail doing the down-up dance over three passes: Middle Ridge, Suiattle Pass, and Cloudy Pass. Cloudy Pass ended up not being cloudy at all, and we found a perfect bivy spot for the night on a ledge overlooking Lyman Lakes. It was early in the afternoon, but we opted to make our hike out a little longer the next day and camp on higher ground in desolation, rather than descend to the lakes into crowds and fewer views. Hitting camp early made for a relaxing afternoon: exploring the surrounding knobs, meadows, and streams, making popcorn, and napping in the afternoon sun.

Views of Lyman Lakes and Spider Gap from our bivy site on Cloudy Pass


Sunset from the pass


Streams, Streams


Once the sun hit the horizon on day three it was a hot one. We left our perch on Cloudy Pass and sauntered down to lower and upper Lyman lakes. Then we began picking our way up the rocky, sometimes snowy, Spider Gap. The sweaty work to the gap payed off with views in both directions.

Views back toward Cloudy Pass from Spider Gap


We had two options from the top: trail over shifty rock or glacier. Picking the snowy route rather than the trail, we descended, greeting several parties on their way up. I have to admit that my prominent thought on the descent down this populated glacier was "Man, I'm glad I don't have to poop right now".

Algae patterns down Spider Glacier


Views up the talus and snow fields to Spider Gap


We came off the glacier trail to blossoming Spider Meadows. We weren't done. Eight of the 15 miles of the day lay between the base of Spider gap and the car. Good news was that the tread was good and mostly flat. Bad news was there were no more views and the sun was out in full force, making for some sweaty, sweaty pits. The walk back to the car was the worst part of the trip. But, it always is.

Part-time model shot after taking a dip in a stream on the long hike back to the car. But he'll probably have to keep his normal job.


Some of the only views from Spider Meadow


To my surprise, this time when we arrived back at the car there were only "That was great" comments. Somehow the Sierra had been forgotten, at least for a few days.

---

26 Hours in the Boston Basin

We have been ascending for hours. Glances back to the north face of Johannesburg mountain, once towering above us and now at eye level, are a consolation. Now we need to stop and put on our harnesses. We gain a notch beside a decaying tower of rock and sit down. It is mid-morning, warm and windless. The sun makes me sleepy. I drift off for a few minutes before Mike, clinking hardware, draws me unwillingly back into consciousness. I glance at the route description and artfully offer to lead the first pitch to avoid leading the crux.



A few hours and a few pitches later, I am leading again. The ridge narrows to a sharp edge. I gingerly traverse, stick in a cam, and pause with a sinking feeling as I eye the next fin ahead. It is nearly vertical, six or seven feet long, and doesn't have even so much as the edge of a dime to step on. I look down, horrified at the abyss yawning beneath. I glance over to the north side, and see a rubble-strewn ledge system running four or five feet below the crest. Shit, that doesn't look enticing, either. I dither for a few more minutes and fantasize about large birds plucking me from my airy, unwilling perch and gliding with me to flat ground. I order my freaked-out brain to commit. It is much easier than it looked, but I'm gripped by the time I make my way across some sloping ledges a bit below the crest. I think I want my mom.



The next few pitches go slowly and it is now late afternoon. We come to the edge of an abrupt tower and rappel into a notch stacked with blocks of dark, lichen-covered rock. Above us, another stark tower of rock, variegated with water stains, guards passage to the summit. From the looks of it, this is the crux. Mike leads out, takes a few minutes to arrange a couple cams and suss out the moves, and then disappears over the top of the bulge. I feed out rope steadily for a while, then in fits and spurts, then stop.



I look down. Far below me, to my right, the immense Boston Glacier is now in shadow. Its crevasses are now black, the snow, blue. On my left, some final-looking rays of sunlight color the basin. The only human presence I see is a tent, three thousand feet below, in a stunted stand of avalanche-flagged pines. It is hopelessly removed and impossibly small.

I feel impossibly small, a trespasser sitting on this broken ridge. I shiver a bit and turn more of my body into the sun as a chill settles on the evening. At my feet, a clump of cobalt flowers flutters in the breeze, also seeming to shiver. The sun gets me drowsy and through the slits of my eyelids I see a fat bumblebee settle on one of the flowers at my feet. The bee doesn't care that it's on an inhospitable fin of rock thousands of feet above the nearest tree, just as the rock doesn't care that two humans are scrabbling across its spine. It seems inhuman, but beautiful. It makes me want to cry. A tug on the end of the rope startles me out of my existential reverie and I break down the anchor and start climbing.

It's a while still before we are standing on the summit. By now it is obvious that we will be chasing twilight off the mountain. Mike arrives, and we flee for our packs. Rappelling off of the north side of the mountain, further away from any road, only deepens the feeling of isolation. As the dusk deepens, we make our way along grassy ledges and look for passages across rocky ribs. It's dark by the time we find the gully that leads back to the civilized side of the ridge and up to our packs.



Back at our packs we exchange relieved high-fives. We descend by headlamp into the dark. A yellow moon is creeping above the horizon, but it is still hard to make out the buttress that guided us up this morning. We stand above an unfamiliar gully: noisy, with water pouring over drop-offs. I eye it dubiously and follow Mike. This is not the one we want. I dislodge a pile of rocks onto Mike as I claw my way back up to the flat spot above the gully. Hearts racing, we sit in the darkness, which is just as warm and windless as it was 12 hours before.

We try several variations on this theme before we locate the correct gully and slowly follow it back to the lower basin. By now the moon is diving towards the hazy western horizon. Some stumbling around in the dark later, we find the trail and follow it back towards the trees. The forest moths are startled by the strange blue orbs our headlamps cast, and flutter dizzily around our faces. Slippery roots blend into the dusty forest debris that conceals the tread. An hour later, I bid Mike goodnight and crawl off the trail. A man-shaped depression between two trees cradles me. I turn off my headlamp. The darkness is complete. I do not dream.

It's light out when the chill wakes me. I continue down the trail. Back at the car, Johannesburg once again towers above, its hanging glaciers cast blue by the diffuse light of dawn. Another team is preparing to head up.